


Crusts

by MisplacedLonelyHeartsAd



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Episode: s10e14 The Executioner's Song, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, I stand by that sandwich, M/M, POV Sam Winchester, Sastiel (if you like), episode coda, mention of past Wincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-06
Updated: 2015-03-06
Packaged: 2018-03-16 15:49:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3493982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MisplacedLonelyHeartsAd/pseuds/MisplacedLonelyHeartsAd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Episode coda for s10e14 "The Executioner's Song." Cas makes Sam a sandwich.</p><p>
  <em>The worst part, Sam thought, was that Dean wouldn’t look at him, not normally at least. His brother would meet his eyes momentarily, even smile a little, then let his gaze slip to Sam’s temple, or to his ear, or increasingly more often, to his throat. To the spot—just over Sam’s right carotid artery—he had once liked to kiss.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crusts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Canon_Is_Relative](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Canon_Is_Relative/gifts).



> This one's for [Canon_Is_Relative](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Canon_Is_Relative), who encouraged me to turn a spark into…well, it turned out to be a sandwich, not a bonfire. Here’s my attempt at Sastiel (with Wincest on the side), my friend.
> 
> Many thanks to my fantastic beta, [frozen_delight](http://archiveofourown.org/users/frozen_delight), for her valuable guidance and all-around awesomeness.

* * *

 

The worst part, Sam thought, was that Dean wouldn’t _look_ at him, not normally at least. His brother would meet his eyes momentarily, even smile a little, then let his gaze slip to Sam’s temple, or to his ear, or increasingly more often, to his throat. To the spot—just over Sam’s right carotid artery—he had once liked to kiss.

He was doing it again.

“I’m making coffee,” Sam said. He instinctively raised his hand to his shirt collar, and Dean gave a guilty start.

“Yeah, thanks.” He edged past Sam into the kitchen. “You get any sleep?” he asked in a falsely chipper tone.

Sam decided to reply in kind, though he felt tight and strained from keeping what he hoped was an untroubled expression on his face. “A little. You?”

Dean shrugged. “Not a lot.” He had retreated to the other end of the kitchen and was poking through the contents of a drawer.

Sam stared at his back uneasily and tried to think of something to say that didn’t sound anxious, or impatient, or nagging. “Oh, uh, Cas called. He should be here pretty soon.”

“Cool.”

The coffeemaker sputtered quietly in the ensuing silence, and Sam sighed in relief when his phone rang and he could escape to open the bunker door for Castiel.

*****

When Cas asked how Dean was, Sam paused to consider his options. _I could say that he’s outwardly okay but who can tell what’s going on under the surface_ , he thought. _I could say that he’s scaring the hell out of me. I could say, “Oh God, Cas, please do something. Just tell me you can do something; I don’t care if you have to lie.”_

“Cas, Dean’s in trouble.”

Sam turned to face the angel, who stood frowning and examining him with a border collie’s unremitting stare, a look that Sam had always found somewhat unnerving on dogs, let alone on a celestial being in human guise. “Can’t you tell?”

“He seems calm,” Cas said. “But you know him better than I do. Did he say anything, about Cain, or—”

“He’s afraid he’ll hurt me,” Sam interrupted sharply. “He’s terrified.”

Cas’s frown deepened. “He told you this?”

Sam raised his eyebrows and shot Cas a disbelieving look that said _It’s Dean. What do you think?_ “He didn’t have to.” Ever since they’d arrived back at the bunker, Dean had been eyeing him warily, shying away from his touch and keeping just out of arm’s reach. Their eye contact had felt painfully foreign, their brief verbal exchanges empty echoes of earlier conversations.

 _What did Cain say to you?_ Sam had asked when they were first alone. Dean had shrugged. _Just a load of crap. He was off the deep end, man_ , he had said before closing his mouth firmly, the set line of his jaw proclaiming such finality that Sam knew he wouldn’t get any more out of him.

“Cain’s messed with his head somehow. It’s not just the Mark.” Sam slumped over the table. “And I can’t—I’m making it worse for him. Every time he looks at me—it’s like he’s being stabbed.” _And this time_ , he thought, _it’s not like I can run away from those self-reproachful eyes. Like I did before._

Cas nodded and sat in the chair that Dean had vacated. He watched Sam’s hands as they tilted his coffee cup, rolling the liquid within. “We can only go on,” he said.

“Yeah, I know,” snapped Sam. Cas looked chastened, and Sam was immediately contrite. “I’m sorry. I’m okay, really. But I’d hoped…” and Sam’s breath caught in his throat, “I didn’t realize how much I’d hoped that when Cain died the Mark would die with him.”

“I understand,” Cas murmured. “A specious idea, but understandable under the circumstances,” he added gravely. He looked surprised when Sam chuckled wanly. “Is that funny?”

“Not really,” said Sam, his dimples making a brief appearance as he looked into Cas’s blue eyes. “It’s just—”

“Me,” finished Cas. He frowned, seemingly at the coffee maker, for some time, until Sam began to wonder how long he was going to sit there. “Sam, am I helping?”

“Of course you are, Cas,” Sam returned earnestly. “We couldn’t have—”

“No, I mean right now,” Cas interrupted. “Am I helping you?”

“Yeah,” Sam replied, and he let Cas take his hand gently in his, as he’d sometimes done in those first few days after Dean had died and disappeared. With anyone else he would have felt silly, but he had long since gotten past any feelings of awkwardness with Cas. He wondered if this was an entirely mechanical gesture on Cas’s part, something he’d learned while he’d been human but found incomprehensible now. In any case, Sam thought it soothing, the gentle pressure of Cas’s surprisingly warm fingers against the underside of his own, Cas’s thumb brushing lightly over his knuckles in a softly hypnotic rhythm.

“Do you still hear people praying?” Sam asked him after a while.

“Yes, of course,” Cas replied. The border-collie alertness was back as he processed the look on Sam’s face.

“What do people pray for most? Besides winning the lottery, I mean.”

“Forgiveness,” Cas said promptly. “The world is full of remorse.”

His reply wrung a small wry snort of a laugh out of Sam. “I can relate to that,” he muttered. “And yet the world is still full of jerks who don’t give a shit,” he added.

“They don’t pray,” said Cas absently as he continued to scrutinize Sam’s expression.

“And Dean? Does he…” Sam shook his head abruptly. “No, forget that. I shouldn’t ask.”

“Does he pray for forgiveness, you mean?”

“No, Cas, I don’t have the right to ask. Besides, I—I think I already know.” Sam couldn’t repress the shivery recollection of fingers in his hair, lips at his throat, breath on bare skin, though so many years had passed since then. And his brother’s voice, smothered but resolute: _We can’t do this anymore. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Sam._ Sam had never been able to convince him that he had nothing to apologize for. Now as tried to tighten his hands into fists, he suddenly became aware that his hand was still in Cas’s.

Cas retained his grip as Sam began to pull away. “Humans can make suffering out of nothing,” he observed quietly. “Don’t do that, Sam.” He placed his other hand on top of Sam’s. “Don’t hurt yourself.”

Sam’s self-control disintegrated, and the tears he had been holding back for hours welled up with startling swiftness. He yanked his hand away and pressed it over his eyes, mumbling “Oh for fuck’s sake” before sucking in a very wet and undignified sob. Several more followed, but he stifled them quickly, out of long habit and also under a vague misgiving that if he didn’t, Cas might think it expedient to slap him while shouting “Pull yourself together.”

Cas, however, did no such thing, merely regarding him silently for a moment before rising to fetch a roll of paper towels, which he then waved in Sam’s face. Sam took it and tore off a piece to blow his nose into.

When he looked up again, Cas was standing over him, concern mingling with apprehension in his eyes.

 _“The world’s more full of weeping than you can understand,”_ Sam thought, and tried to remember where that line of verse came from. He said the words aloud.

Cas nodded slowly. “Yeats. ‘The Stolen Child.’ ” His face clouded, and he sighed.

“You don’t like Yeats? Or poetry?” Sam ventured with a nasal sniffle.

“No, it’s not that,” Cas explained. “I just wish I’d had a chance to read these things myself. When Metatron zapped them into my head, he included all of his marginalia. Which is very annoying.”

“I can imagine,” Sam said quietly. He straightened in his chair and raked his hand through his hair in an attempt to regain some dignity. “Hey, Cas,” he said, “thanks. And don’t worry about me, I’m fine.”

It was Sam’s turn to be surprised at Cas’s chuckle. “Yeah,” Cas rumbled with an affectionate smile. “Sam Winchester.” Then, divesting himself of his coat and suit jacket, he began to roll up his shirt sleeves with unexpected efficiency. Sam watched him wash his hands and proceed to wander around the kitchen, peering along various shelves. He had retrieved a loaf of bread, a nearly empty jar of peanut butter, and a bunch of overripe bananas before Sam realized that he was preparing to make a sandwich.

“I thought you didn’t like eating anymore,” Sam remarked as Cas carefully arranged banana slices. “Especially peanut butter.”

“This is for you,” Cas responded. “Comfort food, isn’t that what they say?” He gave the finished sandwich a pat, then neatly trimmed off the crusts.

“You don’t have to do that,” said Sam, greatly amused. He didn’t know whether he meant the crust-cutting or the sandwich-making.

Cas ignored the comment and said, “Dean told me about this once.” Sam still wasn’t sure if they were talking about crusts, peanut-butter-and-banana sandwiches, or comfort food. “He seemed to think it was something you deserved, but—” Cas waved his knife in Sam’s direction and continued with a puzzled little frown, “—he was apparently unwilling to do it for you himself.”

Sam blinked rapidly and let his mouth fall open in disbelief. _Cas can’t possibly be making a peanut-butter-and-banana sandwich into a metaphor for…that_ , he thought, his brain refusing to supply the relevant word. Had Cas guessed? Had Dean told him? “What are you talking about?” he asked before he could stop himself.

Cas didn’t appear to notice Sam’s wild-eyed expression and replied serenely, “Crusts.” He cut the sandwich in half and laid the triangles on a plate. “It seems wasteful,” he said as he looked at the discarded bread. “It’s a pity we don’t know any ducks.”

In the split second before he started to laugh, Sam had just enough time to wonder if he had imagined the hint of archness in Cas’s placid tone. If he hadn’t, what a relief that would be. _Oh Christ_ , he thought. _This is ridiculous_. He wished desperately that Dean were there, and as he imagined himself recounting the scene to his brother, his laughter began to sound like sobbing again. “Cas,” he said when he was able to speak, “promise me something.”

Cas, holding the plate in both hands, had been smiling self-consciously during Sam’s fit of mirth, but he turned instantly solemn. “Yes?”

Sam began, “When this is over—” A painfully reproachful vision of Dean, lying alone on his bed as he and Cas talked together, arose in his mind. He closed his eyes briefly to force down the nightmare images that always ended in bloody hands and empty arms. “When this is over,” he said in a steadier voice, “promise me that we’ll befriend some ducks and feed them, you and me.”

Cas tilted his head and leaned over the table to squint into Sam’s eyes. Seemingly satisfied, he set the plate down, and with a quick fluid motion he smoothed a stray lock of Sam’s hair into place behind his ear. “Okay,” he said. “Eat your sandwich.”

Sam wasn’t hungry, but he took a bite obediently. Cas’s face was alight with expectancy. Trying not to choke, Sam managed to smile up at him. The bread was stale, the peanut butter spread too thin, and the bananas much too ripe.

It tasted like comfort.

It tasted like home.

It tasted like love.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. I appreciate any feedback. You can find me on tumblr at: [amisplacedlonelyheartsad.tumblr.com](http://amisplacedlonelyheartsad.tumblr.com) or on LJ at: [misplaced_ad.livejournal.com](http://misplaced_ad.livejournal.com)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Clueless](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3547838) by [frozen_delight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/frozen_delight/pseuds/frozen_delight)




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